


Exit Strategy

by butimnotdeadyet



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, If you stumbled into the mandorin tag enjoy the ride, Lady Irina is this okay?, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Season 2 ish, fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butimnotdeadyet/pseuds/butimnotdeadyet
Summary: Din and CT-113 have never met but find themselves in need of a quick escape from the same planet.Follows canon up through episode 2.05/chapter 13 after which I have declared, for the purposes of this ficlet, that the green bean says that jedi training is for losers and his dad is the best and stays with him.
Relationships: Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/Din Djarin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blood and sand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573604) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> First SW fic and i make a lot of stuff up :) 
> 
> I think the fandom collective has standing permission to use Lady Irina's OC(s), but if not please let me know - for real, i do not wish to offend our Lord and Maker. 
> 
> Also I am weak and included POV switches.

The visitor’s hangar was as full as CT-113 had ever seen it - freighters, fighters, transport ships parked in every bay and he guessed that if he detoured into the security office the camera would show a full overflow dock as well. That was good, very good. It meant that one absent ship could go unnoticed. 

Of course it also meant that if a not-there-anymore ship  _ was _ noticed to be missing from the floor, CT-113 would have up to seventy ships in pursuit. Bad luck. 

And then there was the reality the CT-113 had flown a grand total of three ships in his life and he didn't think any of the sleek and innovative-looking shuttles nearest to the port doors would house anything like the cockpit of his uncle old Flyer 7 or the empire simulators and low orbit jets that he trained in before receiving his first assignment. 

The HUD told him he had less than fifteen minutes to go before his next check in. The check in that he fully intended on missing, hoping to be out of atmo before the captain realized that he had gone MIA. 

It had to be enough time. With this many ships on hand,  _ one _ of them had to fit the bill. 

CT-113 worked his way up and down the aisles with a vengeance that would have made his CO proud. Ship after ship had to be nixed - too big, too slow, too new, too flashy. 

Finally, ducking past what looked to be some sort of mod’d Coruscant Cloud Runner that was far too trackable, CT-113 ran his hand over the fuel access panel of an old gunship and almost leapt for joy when the entire plate came off in his hand, hinge and fuel cap still attached. He clutched at the warped and scored metal before it could fall to the ground. The hangar was probably too big and crowded for the clatter to have given him away, but better safe than sorry. 

He took a step back to ogle at the well-disguised trainwreck before him; from a distance it looked orderly enough, everything functional and passable to a standard inspection - even a new coat of sealant that couldn’t have been cheap - but like the budget-friendly solution of using pressurized magplates to reattach the panel instead of proper deep space steel work, everything was  _ just  _ this side of acceptable. The ship was built from spare parts and held together with little more than scrap metal and good luck. A hunter’s ship.

Exactly what CT-113 needed. So he fitted the magnetized panel back in place and got to work.

It took a few harried minutes of forcing his way through the cryplock with the help of his gauntlet for the side door to drop open. He pushed out a breath of relief - nothing lit up inside or outside the ship, meaning that his guess was right and whoever the owner was had foregone the additional credit fee for networking the ship to the security feed. No alarms, no one to know. 

With another look around the hangar, CT-113 jogged up the ramp into the hold and sealed the door behind him. 

The inside space was highly conserved. Everything seemed to have its place either on the workbench or secured by the flight netting on the walls, all very utilitarian. Though there was a locked cabinet promising either weapons or valuables and CT-113 would put his limited credits on the former given the state of the ship and what he was half certain was a carbon freezer. Hunters always had two things - cold storage and a weapons cache. Some light testing with the gauntlet pad told him that if he wanted to get inside, it would be a job for later - preferably when he had time to kill at lightspeed, assuming the bucket of bolts had autopilot. 

The ladder lead into a small hold with doors leading to the fore and aft of the ship - aft would, again, have to wait until there was a little distance between CT-113 and the port and since the HUD still asserted no signs of life or droid activity, the lock would have to be comfort enough that nothing would be coming for his six while he navigated out of soon-to-be hostile airspace. 

The flight deck was more streamlined than the hold, uncluttered and simple apart from the control console that seemed very . . . manual? was the best way that CT-113 could think to describe it. No computation relay ports in sight, not a hint of droid diagnostic hardware, or even a hyperdrive-assist calculator; just one sad and clearly underutilized data hard connection. CT-113 hadn’t flown unassisted since before the academy. Who even does that any more? 

He dropped his bag - filled with what little gear and necessities he could justify sneaking out of the barracks and taking with him - and threw himself into the pilot’s seat. 

The dashboard seemed to be, unsurprisingly, a custom install and formatted without a rhyme or reason. Certainly unlike anything imperial. 

Unlucky. 

The HUD displayed nine minutes until he had to be beyond tracking range. 

He needed to get this ugly, Galactic Era scuffer in the air _ soon. _

CT-113 did not start hitting buttons at random, or pleading under his helmet for the engines to turn over, and he definitely didn’t jiggle the strange, pommel-less lever on his right in hopes that it would magically give him insight into the takeoff protocol for the ship. And since there was no one around, no one could say otherwise. 

When the timer ticked to down past five minutes and forty second until his next SITREP call and CT-113 had sweat rolling down the back of his collar, the port-side thruster stuttered to life - why single thruster ignition  _ was even a thing _ on a dual-tower build, CT-113 had  _ no idea _ \- and the other followed after a few more failed switches. All he had to do was ease off the ground and get into the exit lane - even a decades old military transport  _ had  _ to have automated landing gear retraction, right? Totally. Yeah. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Din Djarin did not make a habit of sticking around after bounties were finished. It was both bad Guild etiquette and even worse for a man trying his damndest to fly under the radar for the sake of privacy. In fact, unless the Crest was in dire need of repair he rarely spent more than the bare minimum of time on the surface of whatever plant he had gone to collect from, so even though this job was a direct hire, Din had been perfectly happy to drop the three carbonite-bound thieves or deserters or whatever they were before he caught them half a system away from their starting point and head out. 

But the client had other plans. 

Plans that had included withholding his payment until after the trio had been thawed, and then until Din had grudgingly agreed to a tour of some lord’s arms factory - which could have been worse, Din had gotten a new seven chamber blaster out of the visit -  _ and  _ accepted the invite to some festival the locals were having. 

Grogu seemed to enjoy it all, so he saw no harm in sticking around. A mistake, he now knew. 

Things had gotten weird around the time evening fell. The locals were getting . . . excited around him. Usually, he only got that reaction during a shootout or if the kid did something particularly adorable, but all the weapons were properly holstered and no one seemed to pay the womp rat any mind. Instead, they kept asking Din how he was enjoying the event, if he was excited for his ‘next adventure’, and - most strangely - if he was nervous. 

Nervous for what, he hadn’t thought to consider - assuming that he was, as usual, missing some obvious-to-people-that-were-not-name-Din-Djarin thing. Perhaps they just thought all Mandalorians were particularly agoraphobic? 

Then, everything seemed to happen at once. 

Just as Din thought dinner would be served, he was asked to stand across from the host lord, the very same man who was currently snubbing Din of his paycheck. 

Then he was asked to take the lord’s hands. Which he did after a brief moment of hesitation - his gloves were still on, so there was nothing to worry about.

Then he had stood in quiet confusion as a servant had appeared at their side holding bowls of what soon became clear was some kind as fine, white powder that were dumped over them both as another started what Din could only guess were ceremonial  _ vows. _

Turns out, other religions have very different understandings of courtship. And proposals. And marriage. 

More things happened very fast, including Din fleeing the lord, the lord’s many, many guards and a furious crowd, using his new blaster - it was very nice, he would keep it - and thanking every possibly twist of fate that had allowed for Grogu to still be safely stowed in the sack at his hip while he sprinted through the strange, humid city until he was able to circle back at the port. 

The hangar, which had been at less than half full when he arrived, was now past capacity and Din had the sneaking suspicion that it was because the locals had not shared his inability to recognize the impending nuptials.  _ His  _ nuptials. Maker be damned. 

Somewhere behind him an intercom was announcing that _ the groom has escaped _ and  _ the Most High House will pay a great sum for his timely return _ . Din didn’t quite know what ‘groom’ meant in this context, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with the white dust on his armor. 

Grogu seemed to think it was hilarious.

He had to get off-plant. Immediately. 

Finding the Razor Crest again was easy enough -- apparently, his taste in ships was a lot less high brow than that of most of the lord’s … wedding guests -- but he was nearly knocked off his feet when, as he moved to type in the hatch confirmation on his bracer, the engine above him engaged. 

Someone was on his ship. 

Din heard the second engine flared. 

_ He had almost been married and someone was stealing his ship. _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The ship lifted with a gentleness that CT-113 hadn’t expected and he was pretty sure that he felt the inertial dampeners kick on the moment the skids left the hangar floor. Good luck; apparently, someone was used to making speedy exits.

The hum of the engines picked up as CT-113 tried to push the craft up and forward onto the raised shuttle pass. It sounded a hell of a lot like success -- but didn’t actually  _ move the ship.  _

And around that point was when he heard the  _ click _ of a blaster being taken off stun behind him and CT-113 noticed that where the HUD had once said ‘no presence’, it now read ‘imminent threat [1]’. Kriff. Bad luck. 

“Get out.” 

CT-113 felt his mouth go dry, and his shoulders locked, and - and the timer kept counting down. 

“I can't.” 

“Get off my ship.  _ Now.”  _

He didn’t dare turn around. He didn’t move. The clock showed less than a handful of minutes. Too few to cut the losses and report to base like nothing happened, to take the owner’s offer of a non-violent exit like he hadn’t been trying to leave,  _ to defect _ . To escape _.  _

“You’ll have to shoot me.” And they would have to. CT-113 was not going back. 

“I won't ask again, Stormtrooper.”

CT-113 had thought that the mechanical distortion had been because of his own helmet, but now he could hear it was two fold. Which meant that every feeling of good luck up until now had been wishful thinking because it seemed that as ridiculous as he had thought them, the rumors that there was a Mandalorian servicing the local High House _ had  _ been true. His now-former unit had laughed it off as an impossibility.

And CT-113 could only think of a few people who would be less enthusiastic at finding their ship occupied by a Stormtrooper than a Mandalorian. Let alone the ‘trooper sitting at the controls trying to  _ steal  _ said ship. 

“Fine.” 

CT-113 heard the Mando take a step closer, heard the blaster rotate a fresh round into the chamber. He  _ heard  _ the trigger engage. And heard the gun jam. 

He was up and out of the chair before he knew it, hands shooting out to disarm before the pistol could try and cycle again - innate training rearing under the present threat - but in his rush the gun lost its remaining cartridges, emptying the cylinder onto the floor. The ship fell back onto the skids with a lurch when he abandoned the controls. In the following instability, the Mandalorian treated him to a quick but heavy blow between the plates on the armor near the shoulder that made the gun drop the rest of the way to the floor before dodging out of the way of CT-113’s follow-up strike, each move casting a plume of white into the air. 

They were reversed by their brief moment of action. CT-113’s back to the door and the Mando standing behind the pilot’s chair. The gun, useless on the floor between them, CT-113 with his hands curled into fists and the other with a newly unsheathed vibro-blade held in a grip that spoke of a deep and deadly familiarity. But the Mando's stance shifted to defensive. 

“I don’t have time to kill you. Leave.” The Mando sounded like they were getting tired of repeating the sentiment.

“If I leave, I’m dead anyway.” Said CT-113. It was truer than he really cared to think about just then. 

The Mando practically scoffed, or tried. “Not my prob-”

“Ehh!” 

That was not the Mando. And CT-113 was at least mostly sure it wasn't  _ him  _ that made that noise _. _

The Mando moved again, trying to twist their hips to the side to hide - 

A little, green head popped out of the pouch that had been tucked out of sight by the Mando’s cloak. It called out again. “Ehh!”

“No.” 

CT-113 blinked. What?

“That is not happening, shush.” 

The timer. “Please,-” the Mando was doused in white, wedding white. But he was alone. Fleeing, too, CT-113 realizes, “-take me with you.”

The ... baby? bleated again. And the Mando’s visor flicked to the side, out the window, for a moment. 

There is movement - a teeming crowd. The engines were still idling. 

“We’re out of time.” 

And then the Mando dropped into the chair, pulled up on the column and sent them into the air at a breakneck speed that sent CT-113 flying into the passenger chair behind him. 

They soared out of the hangar just as the timer hit zero. CT-113’s HUD flashed with the command to report. 

Corin dismissed the command. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins a beautiful, contentious relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter! A lot of introspection and some more character bits. 
> 
> This story lives and breathes because of the amazing 'The Mandalorian, his son and the Storm Trooper" series by LadyIrina that has introduced me to so many characters that I would kill for, including the wonderful Corin Valentis. 
> 
> (dont even get me started on Leave-it and Zev - they're not here but i would commit so many crimes for them)

Din was fairly certain that this was uncharted territory. 

Not in  _ space _ , obviously. The Crest had jumped to lightspeed flawlessly once they were out of civilized air and they were immersed to the silent blue waves. A few more moments and Din would be able to initiate autopilot and deal with the problem behind him. 

The unknown was the literal Imperial deserter. As best as Din could tell in the dim reflection of the windshield, the trooper had strapped himself into the chair opposite of Grogu’s and had yet to make another move. 

As if the little twerp was listening in on his thoughts, Grogu let out a trill from Din’s lap and wiggled like he was going to get down.

“No, stay there.” 

A pout in return. Din sighed. 

The lightmeter  _ ding _ ed to clear the ship for unguided flight and Din made sure that all the stabilizers were reading clear - ripping out that tracker back on Corvus had unsettled a few of them and he hadn’t gotten a chance to realign them between there and taking the bounty. 

The bounty that he still needed to collect on. Kriffing marriage-desperate lord.

But Din knew it would be fine. That’s what the Guild is for, anyway, and why he had worked his ass off getting accepted in the first place. Greef could get it sorted. Though, that would be a call for  _ after _ they had put some distance between them and the lord. Another planet that Din wouldn’t be visiting again if he could help it. He sighed, and was answered with a three fingered hand reaching up to pat the edge of his helmet. Grogu’s hand came away white. Din sighed again and turned the flight chair. 

“Are you going to behave?”

The ‘trooper’s helm shot up from where it had fallen back against the headrest, his visor meeting Din’s.

“Me? Or - or the kid?”

Din tilted his head. It seemed to get the message across.

“Uh, yes! I’ll just . . . sit?” 

The deserter nodded as he spoke, and reached up to remove his helmet with a quick tug before setting it in his lap. “I’ll just sit here if that’s okay.”

He looked - he was - his - 

That was fine. He and his face could sit there. 

In Din’s arms, Grogu squirmed again and let out a commanding warble. Right. 

“Kid’s gotta eat and I’ve gotta clean up.”

“Yeah! You do that.”

The ‘trooper smiled.

It was fine. 

* * *

  
  


As it turns out, Mandalorians make great travel companions. This particular Mandalorian hadn’t even threatened to kill him again. Yet. Which was nice. Not quite ‘good luck’, but nice nonetheless. 

Apparently, Corin ranked very low on the list of bounty hunter concerns.

It seemed like the Mando would be gone for a good few minutes - having left the bulkhead and trapdoor open so that they could, Corin guessed, keep an ear out for any tomfoolery on the bridge while bumping around down in the galley - but he wasn't sure how to keep track of time given there wasn’t any sort of GST clock on any of the many,  _ many  _ readouts and interfaces around the cockpit. 

He could put the helmet back on - that was probably how the Mando kept time, anyway - but that felt . . . wrong. And a lot like bad luck. 

That’s okay, he could live with a little suspense. 

But, in the meantime, what?

The tracker was a good enough place to start.

There had originally been three: one under the neck padding in his helmet, another in the gauntlet of his nondominant hand, and a third in the housing of the scope on his issued blaster. The latter two had already been dealt with. It was easy enough to corrupt the locational chip beneath the armguard control pad, especially considering that most troopers did it accidentally a few times before they even had clearance to enter the field. It had been Corin’s first time damaging issued gear, purposefully or otherwise. The gauntlet tracker is the most selective - passive mic and motion monitoring while being worn - and only checked after misconduct reports or intel missions.

All he had needed to do was be a little aggressive with the exposing of the tech to cold. 

His fingers on that hand still didn't feel quite right. Movable, but stiff and a little slower than usual. It hurt, he supposed, but it had taken a long time in the deep freeze to go from a base-line, to the environmental error, to sensor failure. But it was better than if he had tried to do the same with his old double insulated gear _. _

The blaster just had to be left somewhere believable - the data was mostly for gear recovery and the chip was nearly impossible to remove with destroying the photo-reflective lining in the barrel so it was just a matter of making sure that wherever it was discovered wouldn’t leave a giant arrow facing towards his real last known. Corin managed to casually lean it up against an I-beam in the industrial district during his single-man perimeter check, making sure that the stock aligned just right in the support’s grooves that the gun was invisible from the walkways. With a little good luck, all the metal and stone around it would slow down the recovery team, too. 

That just left the small capsule-like beacon that Corin had always _sworn_ he could hear beeping if he listened closer enough, even if all the quartermasters he’d asked about it said he was imagining things. He knew exactly where it was, tucked between the plasteel and compressed foam, but there wasn’t a good time to abandon or disarm it before getting far enough away from the command center in the unit hub -- but even the Mando must have guessed that there was no way a personnel beacon was traceable at lightspeed. 

He flipped the helmet over in his hands and set to work with the stiletto he had stolen from the gear rack on base. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Moving out of the bridge gave Din a chance to breathe without undue observation and even then it wasn't until he was stirring up some gruel for the kid that he realized he hadn’t even known there  _ was  _ an Empire presence on the planet. And that was the kind of thing that he tended to pay attention to since Gideon. Him not knowing likely meant that the lord hadn’t either which meant that they would, at most, have two separate and unaffiliated pursuits. Whoever this ‘trooper belonged to must have done something stupid to be sent out to live in near-exile at the edge of civilized space so they probably weren’t going to buddy-up with the local scorned lonely-heart, and Din knew that the lord’s forces were too weak to get very far. Din was optimistic. 

Then the matter of the Stormtrooper himself was a challenge. It would take the  _ Crest _ over a day of lightspeed travel to reach Nevarro -- its distance from the Core had been one of the bounty’s advantages, he’d even been willing to overlook the demand of in-person doling and collection for the gift of lightyears between Grogu and his hunters, but now the isolation set Din’s teeth on edge -- but given that the ‘trooper looked to be a rough match to Din’s own stature instead of one of the veritable Hutt-sized gunners that Din had sometimes seen running with the Empire, there shouldn't be any great demands on their supplies. And if a certain shock trooper was right and Din  _ did _ eat too little for a man his size, well, the intended thief would just have to deal with the matched portions until Din could leave him on some backwater. Or toss him out the airlock. 

Seated on the bench to his side, Grogu paused in his slurping of oatmix to wrinkle his tiny green nose up at him and Din considered - not for the first time - that talking with the Jedi had unlocked the little scuffer’s sorcerer mindreading tricks. 

Not to mention, the kid seemed dead set on bringing the Imp along for the ride. And didn’t stop babbling nonsense about him until the supper bowl was in front of him. Grogu actually seemed to  _ like  _ the plasteel-wrapped blaster fodder. Which, considering even just he and Din’s brief, shared history, was truly insane.

Din grabbed a rag from above the workstation and wiped at his cuirass halfheartedly. Some of white came off, powdery like it had been at the festival-that-was-actually-a-wedding but beneath that was a paste-like layer, apparently bonded to the beskar in the smog of the planet’s capitol. It would take a dedicated soaking and polishing to remove it all. Which he didn’t see happening any time soon considering the limited private space and Grogu’s new stray. Why someone would want their armor, or clothing, covered in grime during marriage vows, Din did not know. Other cultures' traditions were _weird._ Events like this, more than almost anything, were why he used to work and travel alone. 

He removed his cloak and dusted off what he could from the underlying  _ beskar’gam _ and scarfed down half a ration bar with a _ kih shukur  _ faced away from the child, which was another matter to address. Din had originally hoped that this return flight would make time for Grogu’s adoption. That they, the clan of two, would have time to rest together and Din could say the words and trust that in knowing his foundling’s name and of the little one’s intention to stay with him, they would be father and son. Officially. 

In anything else, the Armorer's word was law and he would be duty-bound to follow her command. But in this the child had the final word and according to Ahsoka, Grogu had no wish to part with him just yet. 

Din wasn’t quite sure where new parents were supposed to draw the line between happiness and terror, but he was somewhere around that nexus. Or he would have been if there weren’t a kriffing Stromtrooper in the jumpseat of his ship. 

He watched Grogu yawn out of the corner of the visor before sweeping him up and into his hammock. The foundling could nap.

Din had to deal with the situation upstairs.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The Mando returned in silence and stalked to the pilot’s chair before turning it to face Corin. It wasn't until the hunter sat down again that he realized the little green child was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s-?” 

“No.” Well, bad luck.

“Al-lright. No questions, then.” His helmet was still in his lap but the beacon was pinched between the fingers of his glove. “I pulled this out -- its the only one left.”

As Corin assumed they would, the Mando leaned forward, took the pellet and glanced at it quickly before stomping it into the metal flooring with a sharp  _ crunch _ . 

“Anything else?” Even without the competing modulation of his own audio array and having seen the body in motion, Corin could still tell very little about the figure underneath the armor. If his Academy knowledge was to be trusted, most Mandalorians were humanoid and the women’s visors were differently styled, so they were likely male. Older or younger, Corin couldn’t tell, and any other makers were hidden by the limited, blue-cast lighting.

“Ah, no. Everything else I brought was low-priority: some basic supplies and rations. A few bacta patches. Nothing they would have cared enough about to track.”

The Mando didn’t respond out loud but Corin decided that head tilts should  _ not _ be so expressive, or judgmental.

“I promise! Look-”, a swift kick sent his go-bag to lay the other’s feet, “-you can go through my sack. Nothing to hide. I was packed to survive.” 

“I will. Later.” To the ears of an always-less-than-acceptable soldier, the dismissal was clear. 

Corin resisted the urge to cross his arms at the tone. He’d actually broken plasteel doing it before and he didn't think the Mando would respond with the same humor to the spectacle as his old unit had. 

“Okay.” 

“Why were you on-planet?” There were special courses in training to teach officer-track enlisters how to set the scene for an integration. Corin had never attended one but he was fairly certain this bounty hunter would have passed with flying colors. Just the right amount of authoritative, unnerving, and clinical.

“I - we were reassigned to play ‘support and protect’ to a loudmouth son of some important Imperial. He wanted to travel to the middle of nowhere because he heard they made rare, covet-worthy firearms. We were told to escort him.” Corin scoffed a little bit, “I guess if they made yours, their reputation was exaggerated.” 

Nothing. Not even one of those annoyed sighes. Corin continued. 

“We touched down four days ago and heard all about how the Lord Whose-it of House Whatever hired a Mandalorian to retrieve some misguided servants. So, we kept to ourselves.” Corin didn't feel the need to add that there were just as many bounties out on remnant imperials as there were for any type of criminal, nowadays. The Mando had probably filled some of them.

“Honestly, we all thought that they had made it up. Or were getting played by someone masquerading as a Mando. There, um, aren't many around anymore. . .” About half the troopers in the unit seemed to think that they had gone extinct decades back. When all the shuttles started coming in from other cities and the party got started, none of them - Corin included - had thought to connect the event with the rumor mill. 

“Why desert now when the war has been over for years?” 

There was an edge to the question that Corin supposed he deserved. Poor edicate to bring up the ‘dead and dying’ status of someone’s religion when maybe-vying for your life. Not good luck. 

“I wasn’t a Stormtrooper - or, I mean, I  _ was _ but really I was a Snowtrooper. I spent nearly all of my enlisted time on an ice planet about as far away from anything of importance as you can get. Doing data relay, making sure that no one but us was using the planet as a waystation, happily freezing me ass off while doing what I was told to get paid. Even with the Death Stars destroyed and the war over, my job was still my job. Until that was done, too.” 

It had really been that simple, once. He had learned to stop missing a lot of things, but he still missed snow. Being taken from the one aspect of his life that he’d cared anything about had been the last straw. 

Corin realized he’d been drumming his thumb on the plasteel covering his thigh and forced himself to stop. He set the helmet on the floor for good measure.

“Some Moff made a big fuss about something and our unit was recalled. That was nearly a year. I got tacked onto a unit with some of the last shinies the Empire had to offer and got to watch most of them die following bad orders and even worse leaders before landing here as a late replacement. I wanted out - had since before I even finished packing my gear up back on the ice planet. Today’s chaos was just the first, best chance I got.” So, he took it and wasn’t looking back. 

Corin had spoken most of his piece while staring at a blinking light on the console, distanced in the way he sometimes allowed himself when talking about certain things, important things. He cut his eyes to the side, locking on the Mando’s eyes through the visor with what he hoped was some level of accuracy. And waited.

The Mandalorian just twitched their hand before head-tilting again and kicking the chair back to face the forward. 

“I need to make a call.”

A dismissal if ever he had heard one. Corin stood slowly, ready to drop back down if he was called to, and backed out of the room when no reproach came. The Mando needed privacy and Corin needed to work out some stress. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Most of the Mando'a should be familiar, though I did cobble together /kih shukur/ as a phase for the 'small break' to name Din's move for eat/drink under helm when around others. Thanks, mandoa.org !
> 
> I am trying my darnedest to write something cohesive through both the first half of season 2 and the fan work so if you catch fumble, please tell me. Some liberties are taken - like the tracker on the Crest and Grogu's choice but you get it. 
> 
> Also, does anyone have a Mando fandom/ship Discord? I swear i've seen a link before but ¯\\_0_/¯ If so, I'd love to lurk in the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with Mandalorian culture :)
> 
> long note at the bottom, whoops

Working out could only be so distracting and Corin made it about two hours before the body-weight circuits he was doing felt about as useless and repetitive as the ice cap patrols back on base. He ridded himself of his armor about halfway through, tired of the rubbing and stabbing and knowing that there weren’t any commanding officers around to reprimand him. And there wouldn’t be ever again. 

Corin smiled as he finished the last set of press-ups to the beat of whatever was knocking about in the belly of the ship. It had been a good pace.

Not-training meant that he had to find something to do. Stillness didn’t sit well with him and he certainly wasn’t about to begin his empire-free life at a stalemate; indolence had never been good luck, even before the academy. 

He figured getting a head start on his checklist would be as good as anything. 

It didn’t have a physical draft - only existing in his head for fear of others in the unit finding it - and that meant that the number sometimes floated together and switched priority depending on what in particular had annoyed him the most during the days and weeks preceding his desertion but most of the points remained the same: shelter, supplies, autonomy, security, identity, and purpose. 

The things that, if Corin had been allowed to have them at all, were routinely ransomed for his continued and unquestioning loyalty. Things that he realized he had a far greater desire for than he’d previously known. Things that, without this past year of his life being a lesson in the realities outside of his own, he wouldn’t have known to ask for. 

But he was on a ship flying at lightspeed so his options were limited. 

He raised himself off the floor and walked back towards the ladder, listening intently to make sure that whatever transmissions the Mandalorian had been making were finished. Not that they - he? - seemed to be chatty enough to fill up two hours of a holocall. At least with the kid not there to-

Corin paused, only realizing in that moment that the noted absence of the small green child when the Mando had returned from his own trip to the galley and the quiet tapping sound he had heard intermittently throughout his regime likely meant that he had likely been sharing space with the little one for some time. He followed his ears and ended up in front of a short blastdoor with a button pad. Hitting the most likely candidate had the durasteel sliding out of the way and a pair of big brown eyes shining up at him out of a little brown-cloth burrito, one clawed hand still extended out to knock on what had apparently been the bedroom door until Corin’s curiosity interfered. 

The little one appeared to only be interested in being freed from the confines of the blanket - snuggly wrapped around them by restlessness or the Mando’s own hands, the man was hopeless to guess - and made a pleased-sounding chirp once Corin assisted in the unfurling. Then, taking full advantage of both being at hard-to-ignore waist height and the absolutely overly-cute imagery of little raised arms and grabby hands, the child convinced Corin to lift them out of the bunk. 

“I think you were supposed to be napping.” 

The child gave a contradictory chortle before twisting enough in Corin’s arms to sit comfortably between his forearm and chest and waving an insistent hand towards the hatch. 

“I guess I’ll just have to consult with the boss about that, then?”

That earned him a reassuring pat on his wrist. Corin was pretty sure he was being condescended to by a baby. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Din heard the ‘trooper returning and raised his eyes from the screen to catch what he assumed would be the same visual as when the other had left some time ago - nearly long enough for Din to triple check to mapping data and secondary systems - but was instead met with . . . well, not that. 

No raised hands of performed innocence, no white armor that declared differently. 

Just a man, wrapped in the dark undersuit of a soldier, with Grogu perched in his arms. 

“Hi. It didn’t want to nap anymore - kept knocking at the door. I figured . . .”

Perhaps turning the chair slowly was dramatic, but it felt right.

“He only stays down for about an hour anyway.” 

“Oh. Right, then. He was counting my reps, I think-” 

Working out would explain the hair. When the ‘trooper had first taken it off it had been pressed against his head but now it was laying in dampened waves - short but still too long for anything resembling regulation. It cut some of the rigidity of what would have been a very severe ensemble. 

Not to mention the eyes. Lightly colored for sure, though what exact shade was lost on Din’s display, but framed so . . . neatly by the hair and proud features that Din knew they would be disarming if unfiltered. 

“Hmm.” 

He  _ had _ noticed Grogu liked to clap his hands in time with Din’s own forms and exercises.

“Where does he normally . . ?” Din watched as the man looked around in search of something. 

A seat, Din realized, child-sized and appropriate. Something he hadn’t had on board since the kid’s last bassinet was totaled, something a normal parent would make certain to have ready and available. 

“He sits with me.” Not strictly true - usually he sat on the console next to Din or strapped into one of the passenger seats. Both were precarious. Best not to focus on it.

The ‘trooper, fortunately, didn’t seem to notice. He just stepped forward to hand off his charge and Din accepted like it was not completely absurd to have a Stormtrooper relinquish what had once - and  _ recently  _ - been the Empire’s most sought after bounty with nothing but a wise amount of visible apprehension at drawing closer to the child’s heavily armored caregiver. 

To the child’s father.  _ Buir.  _ Right. 

The ‘trooper didn’t step away as quickly as Din assumed he would, moving to return down the ladder or to sit in one of the free chairs. Instead he seemed to linger, hovering.

It wasn’t until Din raised his visor to look at the man’s face that he realized the other was waiting for something.

“What?”

“I was wondering - or, well -- Do you have a phase cutter I can use? Or a plasma-”

“Why?”

“I need to make my armor a little less . . . Imp-y? I had planned on doing it once I made ground but given that you're here and I don't have to pilot, I figured I might as well get a head start.” 

Din nearly snorted. “You’d be better off just tossing it in the fragger.” 

“Maybe, but I’m still gonna need something to keep out the elements until I can scrape together some new gear and it’s better than nothing.” 

What were these imperials have the ‘troopers huffing that they somehow managed to not notice how completely decimated their ranks were after every firefight. His disbelief must have shown through the helmet because the ‘trooper followed up his first claim with - 

“It is! Just doesn’t handle blaster bolts all that great . . . but it's  _ great _ at energy dispersion. I got knocked off a catwalk once, fell four levels and barely got a concussion.” - and a pleased smile as if that showcased any more than the man’s dumb luck. 

Cheekbones. 

Din hadn’t known that he had become so unused to other’s company that every feature on the man’s face seemed to jump out at him and call for his attention. Nevertheless --

“No one is ever going to see that armor and miss that you’re an Imp.”

“Ex-Imp.” Clipped in tone but not an argument, a correction. The man’s gaze held firm for a moment before dropping.

“Or trying to be. Do you have a cutter I can use or not?”

Din didn’t answer until he had lifted himself,  _ ad’ika  _ and all, from the flight chair and walked past, giving the soldier just enough berth in the narrow space so that Din’s arms didn’t brush him. 

“Come on.”

“Huh? Oh, okay, I mean you could just tell me where-”

“If I show you, you can’t make a mess.”

Din wasn't completely sure but he thought he heard the man mumble something under his breath that sounded like ‘ _ more than it already is? _ ’

Incorrect, the Crest was perfectly in order. 

* * *

  
  
  


Whatever organization the Mandalorian had put into place in his hold seemed to make sense to only the pilot, which Corin figured was fine considering that the only other member of the crew was roughly the size of a loth cat and had certainly not been put in charge of inventory. Still, on what planet did it make sense to have extra rifle charges next to the laundry bin? If he weren’t already seriously in threat of overstepping his limited allowances he would offer the Mando a lesson in military barrack protocol. 

Against all logic, the Mando still pulled out a worn plasma machiner out from behind the carbon freezer without having to cast around for long at all. The tool was a little more heavy-duty than a few cuts to plasteel would really merit but it meant that the lines would be smooth and straight even in Corin’s hands. Good luck. 

He felt the Mando watch over his shoulder as Corin situated the machine on a crate and retrieved a thigh plate from the stack of discarded gear. He fired up the plasma blade and was sizing up his first cut when the tool depowered. 

He was looking to see if he’d accidentally tripped a sensor when he saw the Mando’s orange-capped finger moving from the ignition. Before he could even ask why, the same hand pulled something from a tray beneath the cutter’s frame and shoved it under Corin’s nose.

“Mark, then cut.” 

It was a grease pen. Corin winced at his own impatience. 

“Right, it’s not like I have another set. Thanks.” 

He drew out a line down the piece, mapping it along one of the nearly invisible seams on the back of the cylinder. It felt good, planning to cut it to his own specifications. Ask any stormtrooper and they would tell you how much those plates pinching in the beginning. Cold gear was designed to be a little roomier for extra layers so Corin had gone without the discomfort for a while, but getting back into regulation armor had been . . . rough. Apparently he’d gained some inches in his arms, and legs, and waist, and chest over the years so everything was tighter than it needed to be and it had made him feel more out of place than he already had. 

He’d asked for a chance to size up and had been denied. He wasn’t given a reason.

The new shape wouldn’t be as all-encompassing as the original cut, which was good. He didn’t want to look like that anymore. 

But he needed more than a flimsy idea and Corin really couldn’t recall what other armor types of armor looked like and, well, the Mandalorian was  _ right there. _ Corin is completely justified in his repeated glances. Just for reference. 

The piece he’d grabbed was for his right thigh -- good, the left would be trickier. His right was his lead leg, for bracing; it could lose half its surface area and still do everything he needed it to. 

And he had noticed that the Mando didn’t have any guard on the back of his legs. 

He made a few more dashes with the pen and then, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure that he had done an approved amount of linework that got a begrudged-looking tilt in return, pressed the ignition again and started cutting. 

The plasma torch sliced like there was nothing under it and in less than a minute Corin was holding a slightly streaming thigh guard that now had a lower, rounded top and would wrap around his above his knee only, instead of the whole length. It would work. Corin smiled wide as he placed it down on the bench and picked up the lower-leg guard for the same side. 

This would work.

But he still needed-

“Do you have any paint?”

“What?”

Corin kept himself focused, dashing out more lines - this one could keep most of the length and just lose to ankle taper and the back - the anchor that remained would be enough to hold it in place. Corin’s calves were always squeezed now, too. 

“Any paint or tinted particle lacquer? You were right about the Imp-ness being powerful - but if I paint it a non-imp color, maybe people will assume I’m a scavenger. Better chance, right?”

The Mando didn’t answer. Corin looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to find an empty hold with how quiet the other seemed to move - it was completely contrary to the amount of steel on their body, so  _ how? -  _ but both of his overseers remained, and his movement seemed to have triggered the pilot’s awareness because they straightened up sharply enough for Corin to realize that they’d been listing slightly to the side.

“Are you okay?”

He had to repeat himself before getting any response.

“I’m fine.” And the Mando sounded sure. “Yes, color would help. There is . . . some paint in the drawer. Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t!” Corin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling foolishly wide again and returned to the task at hand. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It's not that he thought the man needed supervision after handing over the grease pen, it was just that the  _ ad’ika  _ liked to stare at the plasma emitter and -- Din  _ just _ realized that it looked quite a bit like Tano’s laser swords. He would probably have to remind the womp rat that machiners are off-limits to little green hands  _ and _ floaty mind sorcery.

The warning was one the tip of his tongue when the ex-trooper asked for paint. 

Paint, for his armor. Colors.

Except, of course, that wasn’t what he meant. That would be ridiculous. He was a Stormtrooper, not  _ Mando’ade.  _ He was asking for paint to put on his armor, not  _ alii’gai.  _ He could not know what colors meant to the  _ vod _ because if he did he would not ask it so . . . simply. 

They met  _ today. _

He had been a Stormtrooper this morning.

The man was not asking to be added to their clan. Obviously. 

Din missed whatever the ex-trooper said next before brushing off the concern in its reprisal. This man knew nothing of their culture and Din, standing before him in bare, colorless armor, was far from in a position to explain. The man needed the paint and it -- it would mean nothing to him. There was no harm in it.

Din gave him permission to use his  _ sale’tsad  _ and forced himself not to imagine the colors the man might choose. Since most were curated by the Covert for centralized use, he’d only managed to keep hold of a few small canisters - a scant scraping of brown in the bottom of a tin he’d set aside for reasons that no longer mattered, the blue that he used to touch up his demigauntlets, a sacket of teal that someone had left in his quarters as a joke after he’d gotten himself blown up years ago and had needed half the Covert’s supply of bacta, and maybe a few others. They would make fair camouflage. 

The ex-trooper, ignorant of Din’s dubious justifications, leaned over and immediately started rifling through the drawer he’d been directed to, cooing as he pulled out the  _ sal _ closest to the top - a scarlet that Din had meant to part with on his last, and final, return to the Covert. It would be oddly fitting --

Din could not watch this. He would come back later and make sure the ex-trooper - 

“What’s your name?” 

The question was out before Din’s mind had fully realized the mistake. He did not  _ want _ to know the man’s name. He would get off on Nevarro and they would never speak again and there would be one less Stormtrooper in the galaxy. He did not need a name. Din did not need to know his name. 

The man’s head snapped up from his task, brows knitted and eyes locked with unnerving accuracy on Din’s own.

“Huh? Oh! Corin, Corin Val---, well, just Corin.” 

Din nodded and turned to walk back towards the ladder, making his steps as even and normal as possible because who knew if his equilibrium would be the next to betray him? Later, he would make sure that the -- that Corin hadn’t cut off a limb on the machiner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, something that I definitely meant to put in previous chapter notes and forgot: Corin feels/sounds a little different because he /is/. He's had a year of wondering what else is out there and figuring out just how poorly he's been treated by the Empire. That being said he is still lacking in the self-esteem and accurate self-image departments, but he's a little less terrified of being ousted than he was in canon bc he chose to be on the Crest from the get-go. He knows he deserves better than what he'd been dealt and is working on figuring out what better means.  
> [Now, just /who/ could have taught him a thing like that, you ask? Hmm?] 
> 
> Similarly, Din is different too. He's seen more of the universe but we've experienced most of that with him. He just wants to keep the bean safe and happy.
> 
> I have really posted three chapters of a Mandorin fic and neither of them has nearly died -- that's gotta be a record or something.
> 
> These losers have known each other less than a day and are already this much of messes. Looking at you, Djarin. 
> 
> Less common mandoa.org word:  
> /alii’gai/ - flag, colors: in representation  
> /sal/ - color: literal  
> New Mando'a bastard word:  
> /sale’tsad/ - literal translation 'colors alliance': the colors of a group or society of Mandalorians. With the Covert being so devout I figured they would have to put more stock into the colors/meanings than we've seen as of yet in the show.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay - to be honest this fic took inspiration from one of my other favorite space bounty hunting extravaganza shows but then spun into something a little less recognizable so... whoops
> 
> Again, this included a portion of season 2 canon, though there are only a few hints of that in this fic. I have many thoughts. 
> 
> please comment - even if its just to talk about the complete obliviousness of Din and Corin's great/horrible luck outside of my meager offering to this wonderful subset of fanworks.


End file.
